Welcome back to Behind Closed Ovens, where we take a look at the best and strangest stories from inside the food industry. This week we've got a collection of stories about penises. Lots and lots of penises. It's a veritable penile cornucopia, is what I'm saying here. As always, these are real e-mails from real readers.
The first real job I ever had was working at an Italian Restaurant just outside the DC Beltway. I rarely ever had the Lunch Shift, because I was still in high school at the time, but my shift started at 4:30 PM, so people from the nearby office buildings came over often after work.
Speaking of coming often, we had a regular customer; a relatively large, clean shaven man who would always order the same thing (Salsiccia), sit at the same table by the window. One day, it was early and just me and him at the place. Of course, I was sneaking wine and he has probably sneaking liquor in his Peach Soda. We were bored and often chatted but this day he started telling me about all the "straight" men he has seduced in the elevator of his nearby office building. Then he reaches for a small suede bag in his briefcase and says: "Do you want to know how I convince them?" Of course, 16 year old me says "Yes, Please," and out comes a cock ring. He then goes on to demonstrate exactly what he does (with his mouth only, thankfully) to his colleagues on his freshly plated extra thick Salciccia.
And that's how I learned how to give blowjobs.
One summer in between college semesters, I worked as a hostess/take out at a semi-nice restaurant on the beach in LA. Overpriced, but definitely not fancy. It was the type of place you could hang out at the bar and get trashed or take your food to go and eat it on the beach. One afternoon, this gentleman (using that term lightly) in his mid-to-late 30's comes in and takes a seat at the bar. He's a bit tipsy, but hey, it's the summer and the beach, so I couldn't fault him too much. It should be noted at this point that this guy is wearing board shorts (this will be important in a moment).
He gets up from the bar after a couple of drinks and heads to the hostess stand in an attempt to get his flirt on with me. I'm trying to be nice and non-confrontational, but I really had better things to do than chat it up with this clearly intoxicated doofus. I come back from seating some people and I notice upon my return to the hostess stand that his dick is CLEARLY hanging out of his board shorts. He doesn't seem to notice or care, so I run to my manager in the back to let them know what's going on. By the time I return he is attempting to hit on another waitress, until my manager comes and shoves him into a cab to be on his merry way.
When I served in the Navy, actually on a ship, I witnessed the unspeakable.
In the Navy if you were not a direct "watch stander," meaning part of your job was to stand watch, you had to do what was called "cranking" in the galley. You were basically the servant of the cooks. You washed dishes until your hands hurt, swept, mopped, cleaned up after those lazy f-ing cooks, and anything else they did not want to do.
My job in the Navy was record-keeping so I was stuck cranking for several stints of 90 days, sometimes more than that. Get up early to get ready for breakfast, stay late for mid-rats (midnight rations). There are small gaps in which no one is actually eating and the galley and kitchen were closed. That's when you slept.
One night after mid-rats, the cook on duty decided to wrap up shop and told me to get some sleep. We closed the serving windows, locked the doors and called it a night. Being on the ship and having free time you usually find something to do. So I decided to join a game of spades in the galley.
After an hour or so I realized that I forgot my jacket in the kitchen, so I headed back there to get it. As I approached, I heard music playing around one of the corners where they had these huge mixing machines and vats and figured we just left it on.
As I approach this smaller area, I see the cook who'd let me out of there with his pants around his ankles going to town on a vat of bread dough plopped on one of the counters. As quickly as I witnessed what was going on, and as quickly as my brain could process it, I turned around without being seen.
My heart and stomach just hit the floor in fear of not only being caught, but what I just witnessed. I slowly and quietly walked back towards the door and with as much commotion I could make, pretended to enter the room again, by slamming the door open and yelling "hey, who is in here..." To which he says "OHH Hey.. back here...be out in a sec...forgot I left the radio on..."
I respond with cracked 19yr old voice "Cool, just forgot my jacket. See ya!"
Never ate bread on the ship again.
Do you have a crazy restaurant story you'd like to see appear in Behind Closed Ovens? Please e-mail WilyUbertrout@gmail.com with "Behind Closed Ovens" in the subject line (or you can find me on Twitter @EyePatchGuy). Submissions are always welcome!
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